Scenes From a Balcony
by Skybright Daye
Summary: As the title suggests. A struggling writer's impressions of his brief interactions with the cigar smoking neighbor across the hall . . . This story is now complete.
1. Snow

**Title:** Scenes From a Balcony  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** As the title might suggest, some scenes from a third-floor balcony. Written as part of the the fanfic100 challenge on LiveJournal; each chapter is a response to a one-word prompt, and that prompt will be the title of that chapter. Each chapter is also exactly 500 words in length, with the exception of chapter 4 (which is two prompt responses combined, for a total of 1000 words).  
**Author's Notes:** I own nothing. I am a textual poacher.

* * *

It was nearly Christmas when I first met him. December twenty-first, in fact. 12/21, the same backwards and forwards. I liked the symmetry of it, which is the reason I remember. One of the reasons. 

I'd moved in only a few weeks before, lugging three cardboard boxes, one typewriter, a futon mattress and a floorlamp up the stairs. The studio was small and grimy and the building smelled like fried onions, and I discovered after some experimentation that my window was painted shut; but it was cheap enough that I could go a few months living on my savings before I'd have to break down and start waiting tables -- possibly longer, if I gave up smoking.

Sure. That'd happen.

* * *

I wasn't exactly surprised when I found him on the balcony, leaning against the rail with a cigar and a paper. I'd seen him a few times before, very briefly, as he slipped in and out of the apartment across the landing at odd hours of the day and night. 

He glanced over his shoulder as I came out, nodded in acknowledgment and slid over to make room for me, folding the paper away. I lit my cigarette and took the other side of the balcony, and for a long time we traded appraising glances and said nothing. Then he quirked an inquisitive look my way, gestured over his shoulder towards my half of the third floor.

"You a writer, then?"

I figured he'd heard the chain-rattle sound of typewriter keys, and I shrugged. "Sure. I guess." I eyed the Variety tucked under his arm and jutted my chin at it. "You an actor?"

He gave me a slow grin. "Sure. I guess."

We stood in the silence and the smoke for a while before he glanced sideways at me, appraisingly but not unkindly. "Nebraska?"

"Iowa." I blinked, startled, and sized him up in return – the faded denim-blue of his jacket and eyes, his scuffed cowboy boots. "Wyoming."

"Montana," He corrected, grinning.

I nodded, turned my gaze out to the chunk of LA streetfront you could see from the balcony. "Miss it?" Half making conversation, half really curious.

He shrugged a little by way of reply, the grin disappearing, and I wondered if I'd overstepped some unseen boundary of conversation. He was silent for a long time before he turned back to me, gesturing to the city around us with the stub of his cigar. "Not quite where you figured you'd end up, is it?"

I wondered why it was that he sounded like he knew me, like he'd seen the framed diploma hanging crookedly on my wall; but all I did was shrug and fight back my homesickness. "Not quite."

He chuckled, a warm, solid sound. "You'll get used to it." He flicked the dead butt of his cigar out into space, turned to go back into the building. Then he stopped, looking up into the hot, smoggy sky.

"Snow." He said abruptly. "I miss snow."

And he slipped back inside.


	2. Moon

Weeks passed after that first conversation without my seeing my neighbor again. I even wondered for a while if he'd moved out; I lived a writer's life, up at odd hours of both the day and night, and yet I never caught a glimpse of him or heard him on the landing. I spent those weeks pecking away at the nebulous beginning of a novel, a few unfinished short stories, and a couple of essays that I managed to finish and sell for what amounted to small change. I was still living mostly off my savings – still making the money stretch as much as possible, and still stubbornly rationalizing the cash that went to buy cigarettes.

Hey, everyone's got their vices.

* * *

My neighbor finally turned up again in the first week of February – I heard his door open and shut in the early hours of the morning, while I was staring at a stubbornly blank page and debating whether to give up for the night or to head outside for a pause to clear my head. 

Maybe it was knowing he was back that decided it for me, but I stood and stretched out the permanent kink in my back and grabbed for my lighter and jacket.

I'd rescued a rickety old kitchen chair from a neighbor's trash bin and carted it up to the balcony; now I settled down onto it and lit up, blowing a smoke ring at the half-moon that hung low in the sky. Even with his return, I expected to have the balcony to myself – it was three a.m., after all – but after a few minutes the door to his apartment creaked open and he let himself out onto the balcony, already in the process of lighting his cigar. He nodded at me and settled himself against the railing, surveying the sleeping block below.

"How's the writing coming, kid?" As if he'd known me all my life, as if he hadn't been MIA for more than a month, and yet somehow the words felt right.

I shrugged. "Slow."

"Writer's block?"

"Uh-huh." I cocked my head to look up at him. "You been on location?"

"Huh?"

"Filming."

"Oh." He chuckled and flicked ashes out into space. "Yeah, y'could say that."

"How'd it go?"

He grinned, and there was something feral in the grin. "Ohh, a little bumpy at first. But then it all came together."

"Glad to hear it."

We fell silent for a while, listening to the traffic noises and watching the wind blow a few clouds across the face of the moon. It was a warm night, for February – warmer than I'd ever pictured a February night being. I glanced sideways at my neighbor, remembering what he'd said about missing the snow.

I crushed out my cigarette butt and stood up. "I'm Chris."

He glanced sideways at me with a slow smile, held out a calloused hand. "John."

I shook his hand, and nodded, and then it was my turn to slip back inside.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Colourless

February gave way to spring, and spring to summer. I got used to John's comings and goings – he kept strange hours, for an actor – but after that extended absence from December to February he was never gone for more than a few days. Maybe things were as slow for him as they were for me. I'd run out of essays to sell, and the few transcription jobs I scrounged up all folded quickly. I kept an anxious eye on the savings account, bought cheaper groceries, cut back on how many cigarettes I smoked.

But I still didn't quit. For one thing, I'd come to enjoy John's company when I went out to the balcony for my smoke breaks.

For another – as June rolled in and the temperatures soared – the balcony was the coolest place I could find. Even with the door propped open during the day (what did I have to steal?), my apartment was still an oven – and my window was still painted shut.

* * *

It was really my own fault – I'd established that the window was permanently stuck several weeks beforehand. But the ninety-degree-plus heat must've gotten to me that day, because I decided – in a fit of sudden stupidity – to try again. I tugged, pushed, yanked, levered, cursed, and strained in every way imaginable, not really expecting any positive results . . . 

And _definitely_ not expecting the window glass to shatter.

The first thought in my mind, as wicked-looking shards of glass scattered across the floor and flew out into the air outside the window, was that the landlord wasn't gonna be pleased.

The second thought was that at least it was going to be cooler in the apartment now.

The third thought, fleeting and somewhat disconnected, was admiration for the way that the long, jagged splinter of clear glass protruding from my forearm caught the light.

Then the pain kicked in, accompanied by sudden dizziness and queasiness at the sight of my blood welling up. I'm not good with blood at the best of times; having a long, colorless dagger of apartment-window debris lodged in your arm is definitely not "the best of times" by any stretch of the imagination. I made it as far as snatching up a (hopefully) clean t-shirt from the floor and wrapping my arm before my knees buckled and I hit the floor.

I knelt there in shock for what seemed like a very long time (amazing how seconds can become eternities), watching the blood soak into the cloth and wondering what to do next, before I heard footsteps and the door swung all the way open.

John was standing there, concerned frown on his face, cigar still burning between his teeth – apparently he'd been on the balcony, drawn by the sound of the shattering glass or of my hitting the floor.

I blinked at him, looked back at the glimmer of light along the edge of the transparent blade in my arm, and then glanced back up at him dully.

"Um . . . help?"

**TBC**

* * *

_  
_


	4. Writer's ChoiceFriends

John took command of the situation without any hesitation, crossing my apartment in three long strides and crouching down to take me gently by the elbow. "C'mon, kid. We'll get you to a doctor."

The phrase was enough to tug my brain out of the dull contemplation of my injury. I did a few rapid (or at least comparatively rapid) mental gymnastics and then shook my head. "No. No doctor."

John had been preparing to help me to my feet; now he paused in the motion and narrowed his eyes at me. "How's that again?"

I intended to give him an eloquent summary of the state my finances were in at present, and to point out that a doctor's bill would certainly be enough to land me deeply and urgently in Financial Troubles, capital F.T.

What actually came out was "No doctor. No money," and I reflected dismally that I wasn't much of a writer if an injury was enough to reduce my vocabulary to Tarzan-like levels.

John made what could only be described as a growling noise in his throat and shook his head. "Nuts to that, pal. C'mon."

I tried – weakly and unsuccessfully – to remove my elbow from his grip. "No doctor."

He made the growling noise again, muttered something that sounded like _B.A._ under his breath, and settled back on his heels for a second – without letting go of my elbow.

After a few thoughtful puffs on his cigar he sighed and shook his head. "All right, kid, here's the deal. I'll take a look at the arm for ya. If – _if_ – I can fix it up myself, I will." He gave me a grave look, a commanding one that brokered no opposition. "If I don't like the look of it, you're going to a doctor. No arguments."

I opened my mouth to give him my brilliant two-word argument again, found myself on the receiving end of a steel-blue glare that could've peeled paint, and snapped my mouth shut. I nodded once, meekly, and John helped me gingerly to my feet.

My collapse had been more from shock than blood loss, and I managed to move steadily and (mostly) under my own power. He steered me out of my apartment and onto the balcony, gesturing me into the castoff chair. Then he peeled back my makeshift bandage and squinted appraisingly at the injury for a long moment. I risked a glance, noted that the bleeding seemed to have slowed down – then grew suddenly nauseated at the sight of blood and quickly turned my face away.

Finally he made a gruff noise and nodded. "It's not bad. Ugly, but not bad. You missed everything important."

I chuckled weakly. "Lucky me."

John snorted and glanced at my face. "Sure you won't wise up and go to a doctor?"

I shook my head. "No – "

"No doctor. Yeah, I caught that." John sighed, muttered something about B.A. again, and straightened up. "All right, kid. I'll get my stuff."

* * *

John left the balcony and ducked into his apartment, and I carefully directed my gaze at everything except my injured arm. The extraordinarily faint voice of my common sense was trying to tell me that letting my B-movie actor next-door neighbor treat me wasn't actually that smart, and in the long run might prove more problematic than blowing my savings on a doctor and ending up homeless would've been.

But hey – if I ever listened to common sense, I'd still be in Iowa.

John came back bearing a toolbox in one hand and one of his kitchen chairs in the other. He set the chair down facing me and settled into it, balancing the toolbox on his lap.

I grinned weakly. "What're you going to do, saw it off?"

He chuckled. "Only if you don't cooperate." He opened the box, turning his attention to the contents.

I craned my neck to look into the open toolbox, surprised to see that it was filled with medical supplies. Wrapped syringes, bandages, a blood-pressure cuff, sutures; things that would've seemed more at home in a doctor's office than an actor's third-floor walkup.

I shot John a quizzical look, which he ignored. Instead, he withdrew one of the syringes and a small, clear bottle marked _novocaine_. He watched me for a moment after injecting my arm – presumably to see if I was going to faint and topple off the balcony – then set aside the syringe and withdrew rubbing alcohol and a pair of needlenose pliers from the toolbox. As the pain gradually dissolved into numbness, John doused the pliers, his hands, and finally my arm with liberal helpings of alcohol. Then he glanced up at me.

"Take my advice, Chris – it may not hurt, but don't watch."

"Good advice." I turned my face towards the wall.

He was right; it didn't hurt, although I could still vaguely feel the sensation of his fingers gripping my forearm while he withdrew the glass shard and set it aside. As he pulled sutures and the other tools to stitch my arm out of the toolbox, I turned my gaze from the wall to his face.

"Uh . . ." I cleared my throat. "If it's not too nosy . . . where'd you learn how t'do this?"

He glanced up at me sharply for a moment, with an unreadable look; then he dropped his eyes back to my arm. "Vietnam."

It raised as many questions as it answered, really; but I just nodded and fell silent as he finished stitching and bandaging the gash in my arm. He shrugged as he repacked his toolbox.

"Can't do anything about it scarring." He noted, standing.

I shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. "It'll make me look tough."

John snorted in amusement and turned to go back to his apartment.

"John."

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Uh . . ." I held up my bandaged arm. "Thanks."

A slow grin broke out over his face. "What're friends for, kid?"

And he left the balcony.

**TBC**


	5. Summer

Summer rolled on. My arm healed with no complications, although true to John's prediction it left a long, crooked scar along the middle of my forearm. It didn't do much to make me look tough, but all the same I was sort of fond of it. It proved I'd lived through something.

Around the same time that I picked the last of my stitches out, I found a part-time job transcribing old handwritten files for a local realtor's office. The work wasn't particularly steady – once I worked my way through their backlog of files, I'd be out of a job again – but I could work on my own typewriter at home, and the money was enough to once again line the bank account and keep me in cigarette money.

By now the balcony was something like an extended living room; I spent most of my spare time there, watching the street and talking with John. We'd fallen into an easy, laid-back sort of friendship since his impromptu surgery on my arm; we'd talk about politics and the local news, and every once in a while he'd tell me a story about life on the set.

I was kind of curious what he'd done in Vietnam – if he'd been a medic or what – but I didn't ask. For all that we were friends, John was still a private guy – there was always a kind of guarded watchfulness about him, and there were times he'd abruptly stop in mid-sentence, as if there were something he knew better than to tell me. I couldn't really grudge him that. Everyone's got secrets. They're part of what keeps us alive.

* * *

Towards the end of August John vanished on another extended location shoot, although this time he mentioned the absence ahead of time. I kept myself amused with working on my novel and with people-watching. I'd made a careful, months-long study of the street below us; I knew all the people who worked there, all the regular customers and tenants and loafers of the neighborhood.

The Man In Sunglasses turned up the day after John left; he'd show up every day in the midmorning, and stay until dusk wandering up and down the street. At first I figured him for just another out-of-work guy like all the others who loitered in our part of town; but after about the third day I realized that he was keeping an eye on our building as he loitered.

I figured him for INS; there were a lot of immigrant families in the neighborhood, and at least two in our building. I spent a while wondering if there'd be a raid in the middle of the night; but after three weeks The Man In Sunglasses vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared. A week after that John came back, and by then it was October and I was out of work again.

With all of that, The Man In Sunglasses – and the raid that had never happened – completely slipped my mind.

**TBC**


	6. Orange

"You never did this when you were a kid?"

I was perched on one of the balcony chairs, watching John go through the process of turning a pumpkin into a jack-o-lantern. The pumpkin had turned up earlier that week – "confiscated", he'd jokingly said, from a friend of his who wasn't allowed large vegetables or sharp objects (at least, I _thought_ he'd said it jokingly).

Now John paused in his work, cocking an eyebrow at me with a disbelieving look. "Figured every kid had carved a pumpkin at least once."

"My dad . . . wasn't the type." I shifted, uncomfortable; the question came close to the kind of personal details that neither of us usually revealed.

John noticed – nothing ever escaped him – and nodded, bending back over the task of scooping out guts from the gourd. Every so often he'd lean out past the balcony railing and drop a handful of slimy orange seeds into the dumpster three stories below.

I grinned at that. "You've got good aim."

John chuckled. "Yeah, you get to have, after a while."

It was another one of those question-raising statements, but I'd gotten used to them by now. I leaned forward and watched as he finished cleaning the pumpkin and started carving it with deft, skilled strokes.

John kept his gaze moving as he worked – a habit of his, glancing from the pumpkin to me to the view of the street below. On one of those glances his hands paused, his back stiffening slightly. I turned my head to follow his gaze, curious at what he'd seen.

It was the Man In Sunglasses, back for the first time in weeks; meandering down the street and occasionally glancing back at our building.

I turned back to John, intending to ask who he thought the Man was looking for; and what I saw startled me.

The expression in John's eyes was cold, sharp; something in his face had suddenly become dangerous, calculating . . .

Hunted.

I won't lie – in that moment, I was a little afraid of him.

John's keen blue eyes stayed on the Man in Sunglasses until he rounded the edge of the block. Then he stood abruptly. "I'll see you kid. Got a meeting with my agent." He didn't quite meet my eyes as he said it, and I knew without any question that he was lying to me.

He'd left the balcony before I could fully process what that might mean.

I stayed on the balcony, thinking about what had just happened and wondering what I should do, studying the jack-o-lantern which John had abandoned mid-carving. It had the requisite toothy smile and pointy nose, but only one eye had been finished – the other was only a half-carved slit.

I sat there for a long time, but things didn't become any clearer. After a while I gave in, picked up the winking pumpkin, and settled it on the balcony railing.

Then I turned and went inside, feeling the jack-o-lantern's single eye follow me as I went.

**TBC**


	7. Storm

Three days passed; John didn't return from his "meeting". At first I was afraid something had happened to him – but if that were true, I doubted that The Man In Sunglasses would still be lurking across the street. I had to assume that they didn't know he was gone – and that they'd come for him eventually.

I wasn't sure which I wanted more: for him to come back, or for him to stay gone. Part of me wished for a chance to say a real goodbye, to share another smoke with my one real friend.

But an equal part of me wanted to be able to tell them "I don't know where he is" when they came – and to be telling the truth.

* * *

I'd figured they – whoever they were – would come in the middle of the night, feet like thunder on the stairs, roughly hammering on the doors of the building and rousing people out of bed with shouted commands. 

I was wrong. They came for him in broad daylight.

I'd gone out to buy cigarettes; coming back, I noticed that the Man In Sunglasses wasn't on the street. I'd thought about little else in the past days, and his absence made me nervous – nervous enough that I lit up a smoke as I entered the building, not waiting to reach the balcony.

The Man In Sunglasses was there – without sunglasses this time, dressed instead in Army fatigues and accompanied by a knot of men carrying guns. They were grouped around the door of the Chens' second-floor apartment, scowling and asking brusque questions about someone named "Smith", while Mister Chen's daughters stood in a frightened huddle just inside the door and Chen shook his head emphatically, repeating "No English, no English" over and over in response.

My chest went cold with a nameless emotion as I edged up the stairs past them, eyeing the guns, reflecting distantly that Mister Chen spoke perfect English every other day of the year and wondering if I would faint before or after they stopped me.

They didn't stop me, although I figured that only meant they were working their way up from the ground floor. They'd catch up soon enough.

I wondered what I'd tell them.

My hands were shaking by the time I reached my landing – and stopped short, realizing that the door to John's apartment was wide open.

John himself was on the balcony, eyeing the drop to the ground with a calculating manner. He was dressed in painter's coveralls, a duffel bag clenched in one hand, and he turned with a whip-fast motion when he heard my foot hit the squeaky board near the balcony door.

We stared at each other for a long, tense moment, him with a cagey look in his eyes, me with questions roiling in my gut.

There were a thousand things I wanted to ask him, but there wasn't time. There were bootsteps thundering on the stairs . . .

And I still didn't know what I'd tell them.

**TBC**


	8. Strangers

I've never thought of myself as a brave person. I spent too much of my childhood being told to shut up and sit down – that kind of upbringing doesn't breed bravery. Becoming a writer (or trying to become one) and taking up smoking were my only acts of nonconformity . . . and let's face it. Neither one of those is really all that brave.

They're definitely not stand-up-to-men-with-guns brave.

* * *

There was a part of me, the quiet raised-in-Iowa part, that almost turned and bolted into my apartment, leaving John to whatever trouble it was he'd managed to get himself involved with. That was the part of me with a pounding heart and shaking hands -- but there was another part, too.

That part came packaged with a scarred forearm and nine months' worth of shared smokes.

And it was that part -- what I guess you could call the brave part -- that reached out and pushed the wooden balcony door shut, then dashed across the landing to stand, flustered and wide-eyed, in the doorway of my apartment.

They came up the stairs only a second later, five men all armed and scowling, ignoring me for the moment as they shoved open the door to John's apartment. The Man In Sunglasses led the way in, shouting "Smith!" and barking orders at the others.

After I don't know how long holding my breath (_Ohpleasedon'topenthebalconydoor_), they left John's apartment and backed me into mine, crowding into the small room. The Man In Sunglasses pushed his way through the knot of soldiers and regarded me with a scowl.

"Where's Smith?"

"Smith? The guy across the hall?" I took a deep breath.

Brave? No, I'm not brave.

But I'm a writer. If I know anything, I know how to tell a good lie.

"He left earlier," I started, "With some guy. Big guy." I shot a nervous glance at the nearest gun. "B-but I . . . I heard 'em talking . . ."

And I let my mouth run away with me, something my father was always quick to accuse me of doing – let my brain spin out an elaborate, detailed, utterly bogus story that had the Man and his gun-toting minions completely focused on me. He even pulled out a notepad and wrote down some of the high points, asking a few clarifying questions that I answered with the shameless innocence of a born liar.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, while their attention was completely on me, the balcony door inched its way open (thank God for quiet hinges) and John slipped out, moving with more stealth than a night breeze. He shot me a brief, brilliant grin as he deftly stepped over the noisy floorboard and headed, bag in hand, down the stairs.

I spared only a glance at him – not enough to draw the Man's attention away from the lie I was spinning – and reflected distantly that I had not, after all, had the chance to say goodbye.

But somehow, I thought he'd gotten the message just the same.

**TBC**


	9. Life

Days became a week, then another, and then it was November. I wondered if John had really escaped, or if they'd caught up to him somewhere else – but I tried not to think about it too much.

In early November John's belongings were cleaned out. They left the apartment door hanging open when they left, and the sight of the empty rooms through the doorway was almost a physical pain.

They also left the chair John had carried out to the balcony when he'd stitched up my arm. Staring down the empty seat was even worse than staring down the doorway, and after a while I picked up the chair, moved it carefully into the empty apartment, and shut the door with a firm and final gesture.

The pumpkin stayed, growing dry and shriveled in the LA heat; somehow I couldn't quite bear getting rid of it. Moving the chair had been different – an acknowledgment that John was not coming back.

Getting rid of the jack-o-lantern was saying he'd never been there to begin with.

* * *

On Veteran's Day I came back from a trip to the store and found the envelope shoved under my door – no stamp, no addresses, just my first and last names in a block-lettered hand. I stowed the groceries and then – puzzled and a little apprehensive – carried the letter and a pack of cigarettes out to the balcony, lit a smoke and tore the envelope open.

The letter was short, a single sheet of white paper, written with blue fountain pen in a strong, sloping print.

_Chris,_

_Wish I'd had time to explain . . . but thanks for giving a guy the benefit of the doubt. For whatever it's worth – you did the right thing._

_The card belongs to a friend of mine. If you're ever in trouble, if nobody else can help, let him know. We'll find you._

_It's been a good year, kid. Thanks._

_– John_

_PS: Might be time to lose the pumpkin._

I turned the envelope over and a business card fell out into my lap, a flimsy cream-colored bit of cardboard with _Lee's Chinese Laundry_ and an address.

I grinned, pocketed the card and the letter both, suddenly feeling that all my fears for John's capture had been unfounded from the start, that it would never happen in a million years.

Then I stood, crushed out my cigarette, and pushed the shriveled old gourd off the railing, chuckling as it fell through the air and landed, with a satisfying sound, in the dumpster below.

* * *

Not all friendships last forever – ours didn't even last a year. But the things it left me – a scarred-up forearm, a brief letter, a business card, a little more courage than I thought I'd had – those will stay with me.

Sometimes I wonder what of mine will stay with him.

It was late December when I met him – 12/21, the same backwards and forwards. I liked the symmetry of it, which is the reason I remember.

One of the reasons.

**THE END**

_A/N: Thank you so much to all who have stuck with this fic while it was in progress; your reviews were a cherished and much-needed incentive in completing Chris' story._


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